


Late Night Visitor

by justbygrace



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-25 11:22:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3808504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justbygrace/pseuds/justbygrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by one of those AU idea posts</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He'd literally just relaxed in front of the fire, slippers and robe in place, the tendrils of Earl Gray steam rising at his elbow, the spine of the book he'd been waiting to read all week barely cracked when the crash at his bedroom window sent him lurching to his feet. He always left that window cracked so his cat could come and go from the fire escape at ease, but the tabby had abandoned the stormy night and was snoozing belly up in front of the flames. There wasn't much to defend himself with at hand - he'd always believed in nonviolence, but with the fire poker in one hand and Tolstoy held before him, he tiptoed to his bedroom, his chosen sword and shield held before him. 

The sight of a figure hunched on the fire escape, head bowed against the glass, brought him up short and he hesitated until he realized the person was making no moves to come in and indeed wasn't moving at all. He eased the window up slowly, just barely catching them as they toppled sideways through the window, their hood slipping backwards and long blonde hair falling across his shoulder. Ignoring his surprise at that development, he pressed his fingers to her neck and heaved a sigh of relief when he found a pulse and then inhaled sharply when his fingers came away bloody. Half-dragging, half-carrying her to the bed, her set her down gently and then froze, staring down at the pale skin and soft cheeks of his visitor until a hitch in her breathing sent him scurrying to the bathroom for towels and a bucket of water. 

Focusing on the next step of his task, he relieved her of her jacket and shirt, top lip catching between his teeth when he caught sight of the jagged gash down her neck and shoulder. It needed stitches and he considered calling the hospital - Martha was on duty tonight and wouldn't ask many questions, but she'd made it to his window before passing out - the fifth floor no less - not at the hospital, and that had to mean something. Muttering under his breath, he retrieved his kit from the hall closet and set to work, a local anesthetic and then eight precise stitches marching across her collarbone. She slept through the whole thing and only let out a few deep sighs when he slipped one of his old sleep shirts over her head and pulled the covers over her prone form.

Retrieving his book, he dumped the tea down the drain and poured a generous splash of whiskey in the mug instead. He dragged his rocking chair into his bedroom and set up camp there, trying to force his eyes to focus on the words and not on the arsenal of weapons he'd retrieved from the fire escape, the bloody clothes on his bathroom or on why the newest nurse on his shift was currently passed out on his bed or what on earth he was going to say to her when she woke up. For now she was breathing steadily and the flames in the hearth were burning low and the last rumbles of the storm were growing further apart.


	2. Chapter 2

He was sitting in front of a crackling fire, a swiftly cooling mug of tea at his elbow and a much-creased book resting on his knees, but he kept glancing between his watch and the phone on the side table and his eyes hadn't so much as glanced at any of the words on the pages before him. Even the cat, a fat old tabby, paced before the fire, stopping periodically to rowr at nothing in particular. A noise from the direction of the bedroom was slight, a scratching that could be attributed to the storm raging outside, but it had him up and racing down the hall, his book and tea a soggy mess on the living room carpet.

There was a woman hunched against the window, one hand pressed against the glass, the other futilely attempting to raise the sash. He was there in an instant, words pouring out of his mouth as he raised the window, tenderly supporting her as she tumbled forward into his arms. His fingers were moving over her body, desperately searching, finally finding the wet spot on her lower abdomen that brought a sharp gasp of pain from the woman whose head rested against his chest. Instantly he swept her into his arms, settling her tenderly on the bed before retreating to the bathroom for a bucket of water.

It was the work of a moment to divest her of her outer layer, his muttered ramblings growing more desperate at the sight of the still-bleeding wound on her side. Even as he injected the local anesthetic and scooped up a sterilized, already-threaded needle, he thought about calling Martha, not to bring in his patient, but to demand why this had happened in the first place - but it was late and there would be time tomorrow. Her eyes stayed tightly shut through the operation, only slightly heavier breathing as he bandaged the whole thing up.

Afterwards, after he had slipped an old vest top over her head and adjusted the covers over her, he slipped back to the living room to clean up the mess there before returning to the bedroom, two fresh cups of tea in his hands. He'd hardly slipped beneath the duvet before she was turning into him, clenching the fabric of his shirt in her hands, and he slipped his arms around her silently. There would be time enough tomorrow to find out what went wrong and how they were going to explain this injury at work and to inform her in no uncertain terms this would be the last time she was handling a mission without him. For now her breathing had evened out, the tabby was curled at the foot of her bed, and it almost sounded like the storm was going to blow itself out before morning.


End file.
